


Into His Garden

by Euterpein



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: Aziraphale takes his love for a picnic in the garden. Things go downhill from there...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094198
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020





	Into His Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of the Twelve Days of Blasphemy event!
> 
> Full Prompt: "Let my love come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits."

Things had gotten away from them rather more quickly than either of them had expected.

It was the weather; it had to be. Hot, heavy air had settled over the South Downs and stayed there, settling over the land like a great blanket of warmth, weighing them all down with a feeling of unhurriedness that was difficult to shake. Crowley and Aziraphale’s little slice of the Downs had been no exception. 

It had been Aziraphale that had suggested the little outing; Crowley always drooped in this kind of heat, preferring to spend the morning tending to the chickens and picking the more delicate fruit before moving to the protective shade off the side of the cottage. They had spent many summer afternoons that way, in the years after the end of the world; Crowley dozing happily with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, the latter with one hand in his demon’s hair and the other holding a book aloft. Aziraphale had wanted a change of pace, though, and Crowley had never been one to deny him.

They had packed a little basket with treats from the garden--strawberry jam, fresh bread, slices of apple, honey from Crowley’s hives. They had followed the little path that wound its way across their handful of hectares and up the hill into the orchard. They got the best view from up there. On a clear day like this one, they could see the vast stretches of rolling hills all the way to the chalk cliffs to the south. 

The rare breeze that made its way low across the hills carried with it the scent of honeysuckle and peach, fresh sea air and the sweet, simple perfume of growing things. They had let it wash over them in pleasant quiet as they had spread their blanket beneath the boughs of an old apple tree, one of the few that had been here before they had moved in. Its branches were heavy with fruit, the best Crowley thought he’d tasted so far, the bounty of the season all around as they had settled to the scented earth.

They had shared a pleasant picnic--it was too hot for anything heavy, so they had brought bread and fruit and honey to each others’ lips, bites of sweetness to offset the weighted sensation of the day on their limbs. At some point Aziraphale had pressed a honey-dipped strawberry to Crowley’s lips, had watched the red flesh disappear behind those sinful lips, and had followed it with his own, chasing the taste of it with his own lips pressed to his love’s. 

They had laid their bodies down on the blanket they’d spread beneath them, touches soft and movements unhurried. Crowley had slipped each button of Azirphale’s shirt out of their housings, the better to get his hands on Aziraphale’s wide chest; Aziraphale had repaid the gesture by removing Crowley’s belt with care. 

They had moved together in a rhythm all their own, whispered declarations and embarrassing endearments carried away by the heavy breezes, perfumed with the scent of flowers. Hands had wandered, kisses had been shared.

Aziraphale had peeled Crowley’s trousers off him slowly, carefully, kissing each inch of exposed skin as they were bared to him. He had buried himself between his husband’s legs, drinking in the sweet nectared taste of him. He had only moaned as Crowley had crested again and again, sharp cries and low moans lost to the rustle of the trees above them, unhurried and uninhibited by the scrambling of fingers tugging in his hair.

Finally, finally, he had buried himself in his husband’s willing body, had rocked himself to the sweet song Crowley’s joyous noise, had revelled in them until the both of them were thoroughly and entirely satisfied. 

They had lain there, bare and sticky-sweet and honey-warm, until the sun had grown low in the sky. They had tasted of each other’s bodies and of the fruit of the land until they were satiated. 

And then, they had left the garden, and had followed the path back home. 


End file.
